


Just Like You

by Asreoniplier (AsreonInfusion)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye
Genre: Blood, Bondage, Gender-neutral Reader, Knifeplay, No Smut, Other, Suggestive Themes, antisepticeye, no pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 10:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15928844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsreonInfusion/pseuds/Asreoniplier
Summary: “What do you want from me?” you ask, voice shaking.Anti grins, baring teeth sharp enough to pass as fangs. “Nothing you haven’t already given me. Your attention. Your loyalty.”“So why—”“Thought I’d give you a reward. ̙͉M̛͚̤̟̜̹y͡ attention.”[Small Anti/Reader fic, in which a good deal of knifeplay is involved.]





	Just Like You

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small thing I was inspired to write based on an ask and art piece. :D Check out the inspiration image here: <https://pumpkin-demon.tumblr.com/post/177445334889/cut-me-wherever-youd-like-snuckums-just-not-the>

You must be fucked up in the head.

Nothing about this is appealing – it _shouldn’t_ be appealing. Waking up tied to a chair, coarse rope biting into your ankles and knees and wrists, arm pulled back far enough that it’s just starting to make your shoulders ache. Waking up to a knife in front of your face and Anti’s glitching cackle.

“Finally back with us, doll?” he had purred in greeting. “Good. Why don’t we have some f̠͖ư͈̜͓͉̣̣n̷̰̹̱̬̥?”

It’s not that you’re not afraid, because you are. God. He’s _terrifying_. You can hear your blood rushing in your ears, eyes wide and heart pounding, breath catching. The situation is horrifying, but… thrilling. There’s something twisting in your gut and it’s not entirely fear.

“A-Anti…?”

The sickening green of his glowing eyes pierces through the dim light, nothing but malicious amusement as he drinks in the sight of you, trembling and at his mercy. The worst thing is, you have no idea if he’s going to show any. ‘Fun’ for Anti could just mean cutting you up a bit, or it could end with you dead.

So why the fuck does it leave your face heating up and you wanting to squirm in place?

Anti’s blackened, clawed hand reaches for your throat. Not tightening, but just caressing the sharp points of his nails against the delicate flesh. He wouldn’t even need to use his knife, he could probably tear your throat out just like this if he wanted.

“What do you want from me?” you ask, voice shaking.

Anti grins, baring teeth sharp enough to pass as fangs. “Nothing you haven’t already given me. Your attention. Your loyalty.”

“So why—”

“Thought I’d give you a reward. ̙͉M̛͚̤̟̜̹y͡ attention.”

Your protests die on your tongue at that. It’s… reassuring? Sort of. It’s highly questionable whether being subject to Anti’s attention is any kind of a reward, but he seems to be in a good mood, at least. Pleased with you. (And doesn’t it always make you so pathetically _happy_ to know you’ve pleased him.) At least that probably means he won’t kill you outright. Probably.

His hand drops to your leg, resting just above your knee, and this time his grip does tighten. You tense, choking on a cut-off cry. His nails are digging in hard enough to draw blood.

“Anti!”

The pressure eases, and then his fingers are sliding further up your thigh and your breath quickens, even though you’re still smarting from the pain. His touch feels deliciously like static.

Anti stops only halfway up and uses his grip to hold you in place. As If you were going to go anywhere, bound to the damn chair as you are. Or maybe it’s just to keep you steady, because the next thing he does is press his knife into you, and you flinch.

He presses the knife into your stomach first, a warning to stay still, then trails the tip along your jawline. You instinctively close your eyes and tilt your head back, a quiet whimper on your lips.

This shouldn’t be appealing in any way, shape, or form. And yet you can feel your face flushing, heat curling through you.

“Want me to cut you?” Anti asks, sounding smug. He _knows_. But there’s also a hardness to the offer that suggests he’s going to do it either way, and saying no will only piss him off.

You don’t even want to say no.

You have to lick your lips, mouth too dry to speak, before managing to reply. “Yes…” It comes out embarrassingly close to a moan.

Anti laughs, that glitching little giggle that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. “That’s what I thought.”

He takes his hand from your thigh and replaces the touch with his knife, cold metal against your overheated skin. The way he has you tied up, your legs on the outside of the chair’s, leaves your knees and thighs parted for him. Easy for Anti to run the tip of the knife along the inside of your thighs in meandering little patterns – not hard enough to cut, not yet, but leaving vivid red scratches – and you shudder. He’s tracing right over your femoral artery. If he cuts you now…

“N-not there, Anti, please,” you ask. Beg. The danger is making your pulse race, your chest tightening, but the anticipation is electric at the same time. That knife does things to you.

Anti smirks and moves the knife even higher, until he’s pressing the flat of the blade right between your legs. The pressure makes you gasp. You almost want to buck your hips and grind against it, because _fuck_ , but fear keeps you still. All you can do is squirm internally, face flushed pink and breathing shallow. It’s—it’s hot, it really is, but one wrong slip and…

“ _Anti.”_

He laughs again, running his too-long tongue over his teeth as he leers down at you. But he removes the knife. You’re not sure if you’re disappointed or relieved.

Anti shifts his position, glitching behind you in a single disorientating instant. For a moment you’re worried you might have pissed him off, but—

“Alright, puppet,” he says. His voice is low, so damn close to your ear; you can’t see him, but he’s _there_ , right behind you. One clawed hand slides across your face, covering your mouth and clamping down so you can’t scream, while the other holds the knife against your throat. The sharp edge of the blade digs into you, cold metal biting with clear intent. Oh, _god_.

All you can do is whimper.

“I’ll make you look just like your master,” Anti purrs, and—fuck. _Fuck_.

The knife tears across your throat, splitting the skin and spilling hot blood down your throat, your cries muffled behind Anti’s hand. Your head is spinning and terror spiking through your veins, but—no, it’s not deep enough to do any real damage, Anti knows exactly how to cut you. Instead it just leaves you weak and trembling from the flood of adrenaline, and those words, those _words_.

You must be fucked up in the head, but god, it feels like an honour. The stinging of the open wound, the blood, the knife lingering against you like a promise, the echo of Anti’s voice. _Just like your master._

You moan, and there’s no denying the cadence of the sound.

You can’t move, only squirm helplessly as Anti drags his claws over the gash he’s left across your throat – just like Anti’s, he’s made you look like him – and smears the blood over your collarbones. The tip of the knife trails back down between your legs.

“Now. Let’s have some _real_ fun.”


End file.
